


Pulled Against the Grain

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Overworking, sickfic sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A request from my tumblr for Jon pushing through exhaustion. Martin helps, when Jon will let him.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 178





	Pulled Against the Grain

Martin had hoped that sleeping in the room that Jon typically uses for sleeping when he works late would result in Jon going home at a more reasonable hour every night, but when he wakes up thirsty at half past midnight and passes Jon’s coat still hanging on its peg, he has a sinking feeling that this isn’t the first night he’s had a sort of sleepless sleepover in the archive room. 

Rubbing the grit from his eyes, Martin stretches, switches the electric kettle on for tea, and decides to go looking for Jon instead of going back to bed like he’d planned. 

He finds Jon pouring over several statements, all more than likely statements about bugs, Jane Prentiss, or both. His hair is messily tied back and there are dark circles under his eyes that suggest he’s been up for a long time. 

“Jon,” Martin calls, startling him from his work with a violent jerk. 

“Jesus, Martin,” Jon snaps, and Martin apologizes. 

“I didn’t sneak up,” he defends. “Sorry.”

Jon huffs a sigh. “What are you doing up?”

Martin shrugs. “I could ask you the same question.” Jon shrugs, pulls his cardigan around him a bit tighter. “I just woke up to get some water. Then I saw the light on in here and I thought, ‘well, that can’t be right, because Jon is at home, sleeping, like a normal person.’”

Jon frowns. “I must have lost track of time.” 

“Funny how that happens when you don’t care to glance at a clock.”

“God, you sound like Tim.” 

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“What was the question?” For a brief moment, Martin feels angry enough to give up on the whole conversation, because what use does it serve if Jon won’t listen, anyway? 

However, there’s confusion on Jon’s tired face rather than the sort of hard, steely look he gives when he’s intentionally being difficult, so instead, he answers. 

“It’s quarter to one. And I know you got in early.” 

Jon frowns, looking genuinely surprised. “I didn’t mean to stay so late,” he admits. He allows some exhaustion to seep into his tone now that he knows it’s warranted, Martin notices. “I should go.” As he stands to gather his things, Martin almost regrets coming down here at all, because finding Jon asleep in the archives tomorrow morning would be better than him falling asleep on the tube. But Martin can’t very well make a whole ado about Jon needing to go home and then turn around and tell him not to go home, can he?

“I’ll, erm, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Martin calls weakly as Jon hurries out of the room, leaving Martin feeling, as he always does after a conversation with Jon, like he’s said something wrong and doesn’t know what. 

If Martin hadn’t seen Jon leave the archives the night before with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t believe he’d left at all, because Jon is already pouring over statements when Martin wakes up, which is about an hour before even early-bird Sasha is expected in. 

He picks his battles, though, and he knows this isn’t one he can win. 

“Good morning, Jon,” he greets cheerily from the doorway, still in soft pyjama pants and a robe. “How did you sleep?” 

When Jon looks up, Martin’s smile falters. His eyes are bloodshot, something that appears even more striking against his pale face. Jon’s hair is clean but dry, meaning that he more than likely washed it a few hours ago, and he’s wearing a soft sweater, probably because his skin is tender from sleep deprivation and an overstimulated brain. 

“I slept well, you?” Jon lies.

“I don’t know why I bothered asking,” Martin mutters. “We both know you couldn’t have slept more than, what, three hours? Four?”

Jon looks pointedly away. “I… couldn’t fall asleep. Bit of a restless mind.”

Martin gapes. “So, you didn’t sleep at all, then,” he accuses. “Again.”

“What do you mean, ‘again?’” 

Martin rolls his eyes. “We’re not stupid, Jon,” he defends. “It’s obvious you’re not sleeping; no one’s seen you have a proper meal in weeks. I know the worms are--are awful, but they’re not what’s eating at you.”

Jon falters, but of course, that doesn’t mean that he’s gotten through to him. 

“I’ve got—”

“Work to do, right,” Martin finishes. “Got it. If I made you a cup of tea, would you drink it?” 

Surprisingly, he nods. “Something strong, please,” Jon requests, “if it’s not too much trouble. I think I need a bit of a boost.” 

Martin brings tea twice more after that, and when he goes to check on Jon before he goes to bed, he’s upset but not surprised to find him staring at statements. He knows Jon isn’t really reading them, because his eyes aren’t moving from their fixed but glassy gaze in the general direction of the paper, and Jon is startled when he knocks. 

“Hey, Jon,” he greets gently, like he’s trying to approach a skittish wild animal. “I’m going to bed. Do you need anything before I do?” 

Jon, looking exhausted and discouraged, shakes his head. “No. Thanks, Martin.” He sounds resigned, frustrated. 

It’s a cue to take his leave, but Martin stands his ground instead. “Anything useful in any of those documents of yours?”

Humorlessly, Jon laughs. “I haven’t a clue. I can hardly even read them anymore. It’s like the words are moving as I’m trying to read.” Oh. That’s worrisome. 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

Jon shrugs. “I’m just having a hard time--focusing.” 

“That will happen when you haven’t slept in three days.” He frowns as Jon puts his thumbs to his temples. “Headache?” 

Another shrug. “A bit, I suppose.” 

“It may not be my place to say this,” Martin starts, pausing to ensure that Jon doesn’t look murderous and continuing when he just looks worn, “but you seem--you seem like you’re putting more pressure on yourself. More than, erm, usual, which is already a lot. And it’s not as if that’s not earned, like you’re not so important as all that or anything; that’s not what I’m saying at all, but—”

“I’m assuming there is a point to this?” 

Martin sighs. “I just think it would do us all some good if you’d--if you’d cut yourself some slack once in a while.” 

“Well, perhaps it would be good for me, but how would that possibly be better for the rest of you? In what way could you possibly benefit from me taking it easy?” 

“We need you, Jon,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and when it doesn’t click for Jon, he elaborates. “I need you to be okay.” 

He expects to be dismissed, but instead, Jon just… deflates, his shoulders sagging and his normally refined posture melting. 

“Thank you, Martin.” He makes no attempt to hide the exhaustion in his voice, exhaustion so strong that it has made a crack in the thick walls of Jon’s exterior. 

It’s still not enough to break them down. “Just don’t… don’t shut us out completely, alright? I know you need secrets, but please, let me--let us in when you can.” Jon nods, closing his eyes. 

“I’m tired,” he finally admits, and while that much is obvious and perhaps an understatement, to hear it from Jon, with no malice or excuse or anything other than what it is, well, it’s a door opening, if just a crack. 

“Let’s get you to the cot, then. You’ll have a night’s rest. When you wake up, I’ll fix you something to eat. You’ll feel good as new.” 

And since it sounds so pristine spoken aloud, neither of them point out that it isn’t true. 


End file.
